Rikki-Tikki-Tavi
I first met Rex in 1972 in Florida. I was a journalism student in my sophomore year of college when I wrote a short three-paragraph letter to Rex asking for an interview. He responded with a five-page handwritten letter detailing how busy he was—big deadlines, phone calls, hundreds of letters every week. At the end of this sad story, she invited me to pick her up at the Orlando airport and have dinner before she spoke at the Air Force wives event at Cape Canaveral.
I got to the airport and we went to my yellow Corvette. Rex, who had no filter, immediately offered his first unsolicited critique of my car. He was funny. As we drove to the motel, came the second criticism—now about my name.
My birth name was Richard, but living in the south, I got the nickname Rikki. Rex asked how I got that ridiculous name and spelling. I explained that my grandmother loved the story of childhood Rikki-Tikki -Tavi He announced that my name.
Rex chimed in: “In England, Richard is Dick. That’s a no. In New York, Richard is Yo, Rich. That’s a no. In the South, Richard is Ricky, and definitely not spelled like a childhood fairy tale. From now on, it’s Richard. I got it.” I said OK.
His motel had a nice restaurant. Over dinner, we discussed our travels as two young southerners on the job. A good-looking young man, perhaps a gigolo type, came to our table, checking for possible interest. There was none. Another criticism followed—Rex saw the gentleman’s expensive bracelet. My mother was a big Bvlgari customer, and I saw it right away. When the check arrived, Rex made no effort to collect it. In all our years together, I’ve never known Rex to pick up any check, ever. I never gave up—my father always paid for everyone, everywhere.
Rex asked if I would like to stay. Since I didn’t want to drive two hours back to school, I went into the room next door. We continued talking in Rex’s room, and eventually fell asleep looking at the ceiling from our separate beds.
Rex’s humor was deep. His constant complaining about work made me realize that he really loved it—he loved to complain, and most of all, he wanted to be famous. He barked a lot about life, but I saw him as a dog barking at its tail. He loved the last days. He almost laughed. Instead, he was patient.
I decided to have fun with his jokes. I found a print shop, made a “form book” for Rex to use, had 1,000 copies printed, and sent them to his house in New York—along with the exact Bvlgari bracelet he was going to criticize. I knew you loved it. His response was quick and funny.
In 1975, I moved to New York City. At Rex’s insistence, I found an apartment on Central Park West where we could be close by while the chaos unfolded. He also insisted that I use his answering service, where live operators answer our phones. We shared a wonderful lady, Louise, who reminded me of Mabel King in “The Wiz.” He was fiercely protective of us and shared nothing about our lives with anyone—not even those who called me Rex or those who stood by Rex.
I first heard about someone named Rick who answered Rex’s phone and took messages. One time, he called me to check on my friendship with Rex. I had always been private, and I asked Rex about Rick, adding that I didn’t care about anyone asking about my private life. Rex said that Rick was his assistant, though I suspected otherwise—he was late and sometimes very early. Rex never talked about Rick. I knew about Rick, but since we weren’t dating, I didn’t think twice about his plans for his life, or mine. Years later, Rex would share more, especially about Rick’s sudden death.
My friendship with Rex did not depend on him. However, he leaned on me several times, especially when danger knocked on his door.
I’m anxious to share this, as I’m not a writer, and entering his world in print is something Rex would no doubt greet with his infamous, vicious rant. Above all, Rex wanted to be famous and popular. Rex was two.
